


Three Times William Brandt Needed a Tissue

by TozaBoma



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Bombs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explosions, Florida, Government Agencies, Humor, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, New York, Pizza, and then there was this time, damage control, friends will be friends, you can never have too much William Brandt, your mileage may vary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TozaBoma/pseuds/TozaBoma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the events of MI: Ghost Protocol. Sometimes even William Brandt needs a tissue.<br/>Includes Jane Carter, Benji Dunn and William Brandt. Lots and lots of William Brandt. No slash, nearly no Hunt. And I'm not even sorry. Cos there was this time, and then there was this time… Rated T for part 4.<br/>I own nothing but the things in my flat (for which I have receipts). YMMV re: humour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

## Prologue

## 

William Brandt was five foot ten, weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, had hazel-green eyes and dark blonde hair. He had three healed scars, one tattoo on his left shoulder, one chicken pox mark far back on his right cheekbone, and one pair of very distinctive 'carpenter's hands'.

This is what his official file said.

What it didn't say, what it didn't consider important, was the man inside the shell.

It didn't mention his new-found self-confidence, that he was now a firm believer in the old 'it's not me, it's them' mantra. Nor did it mention his ability to adapt most IMF equipment to fit him personally, or his tendency to have a lunging stretch or two before putting himself through what he considered to be near-death situations, or his upside-down way of seeing the world due to being ruthlessly practical. A tactical thinker, one-time field agent and then analyst, his file didn't conclude that he was now a man who believed anything could get done, so long as you let the team he was in flip angles in unexpected ways and didn't ask where their sources came from.

His file didn't mention the enormous number that had been done on him courtesy of one Ethan Hunt, and the turmoil that it had caused. It didn't mention how Agent Brandt had recovered from the emotional torture inflicted upon him by Hunt in the cause of The Bigger Picture. It did, however, document his change of status from 'analyst' back to 'field agent'. It mentioned no specifics, but the simple red stamp that read 'on call' was enough. Agent Brandt was moved to full active status under the leadership of Ethan Hunt. And that was that.

His team members had adjusted to the idea that he had never really been cut out to be an analyst, and whilst Agent Hunt had been friendly enough with everyone, there was just something that still didn't gel one hundred percent with Brandt. It was Agent Carter who left scrambled, untraceable text messages for Brandt if he had not been heard from between missions. It was Agent Dunn who turned up at whatever cover house he was using with six packs and what he referred to as 'crisps' - despite the fact that Brandt did all he could to avoid people finding him when off-duty.

How Benji Dunn always managed to locate him, Brandt had no idea. But Dunn noticed, over time, that what had started off as a simple ' _do not disturb_ ' vibe from Brandt had turned into a definite ' _I dare you to find me here_ '. And the replies to Carter's text messages had gone from a curt ' _radio silence pls_ ', to ' _e/thing smooth_ ', progressing to ' _good here. You?_ ' 

She thought it a victory; Brandt didn't think of it either way.

 

.


	2. That Time in Missouri

## That Time in Missouri

When, one day out of the blue, Carter arrived at Brandt's cover house, he was surprised. No more surprised than she was to find him in jeans and a dark blue t-shirt - and with paint on his hands.

Sometimes, when she texted him, she picked up impatience or curtness from him. Such a thing was expected when dealing with a three-word-answer man like Brandt. Sometimes, like this morning, she had picked up an entirely different vibe of _do not disturb_ , caused by his simple reply of ' _not a good day_ '.

For them, _not a good day_ could mean it was the anniversary of someone's death, or the knowledge that the next mission briefing would drag up awkward failures, or someone in their off-duty life had had to be cut loose for the sake of the IMF. It was code for _this sucks_ , and Carter knew it better than anyone.

So she had dressed in her most outlandishly summer backless top - the one she had worn only once before, when having lunch with her now-dead love as they had both pretended to be normal people. She had used her favourite perfume mist, and dug out her most comfortable jeans and her 'day off' shoes - the ones with the two-inch heels that contained a tracker and a kind of Swiss Army knife respectively. She had taken her 'clean' car and taken an apparently random route around the city before stopping at a café. Afterwards, she had gone round in circles for a while, stopping to check flowers by the road, or strawberry salesmen, or some other boring minutiae.

 _Then_ she had gone down the long country lane, the winding road that had three houses at the end. Two were empty; all signs pointed to them being between owners. The third gave every indication of being abandoned, but she knew better. Tiny giveaways, perhaps only noticeable to IMF agents, made it likely someone was using the place for free power, gas and warm water.

She parked the car at the back of the next house and then circled round the loneliest one. She hammered at the back door.

"Hello!" she called, knowing he would have a gun in his hand, awaiting further data before putting one of a hundred response plans into action. "Pizza for Remy! It's got black olives and white reds!"

She waited, a smug smile on her face. Of their little team, only the two of them used such a system of safe-phrases; she called him Remy in deference to his surname, and he called her Ms Caine, that he said had something to do with a British movie from 1971. They had agreed that the crazier their password system was, the better. She had once told him she was UPS and had a baby elephant, a rare specimen of an albino that had turned out pink, for him to sign for. He had once told her he was working for the IRS and needed her to sign off her sunblock and barbecue expenses on her last trip to Hell and back.

She waited, and eventually the back door opened. And there stood William Brandt, paint on his hands, looking at her as if the world had ended and he alone had miraculously survived.

He waved her in; she wended her way through the kitchen, taking care not to touch anything that might smear irremovable paint on her summery top or jeans. The room was wooden, rustic, unfinished. She turned and folded her arms, and watched him close the back door. She quite liked the casual jeans look on him; she had wondered from time to time how many women he met when not working, thinking it would be appallingly easy for him to do so, what with his backside and complete obliviousness to the power of his own Cookie Eyes. She had caught herself looking once or twice, but it would be a long, painful walk before she would even consider driving down that road again.

She looked at the pale blue paint over his hands, splashes of it on his jeans, and then realised the chairs resting on the table in the centre of the kitchen were glistening with the same colour.

"How did you find me?" he asked.

She let herself feel just a little smug. "Benji helped, but I already knew where to look."

"How's that?" he grunted.

"You tend to favour old, run-down places where no-one else will be. People are going to start thinking you're _avoiding_ them," she smiled.

"I am," he said simply. "We can't be seen together when we're not working."

"You need a hobby." She paused and looked at the wet chairs. "Oh. Is that what I'm interrupting?"

"I broke a door," he shrugged, as he reached for a rag of a towel from the tiled counter top.

She studied him, but all he did was attempt to get some wet paint from his fingers. Finally she gave up. "I don't get it. You broke a door? -And how do you 'break a door', anyway?"

He gave a small smile - that small, pulled-to-one-side smile that betrayed how he had to admit he had done something just a little bit to the right of _right_. "It wouldn't open. We had a disagreement."

Her eyes rolled. "What does that have to do with the chairs?" she asked. "You don't even own this place."

"Well hey, I broke a door, so I should make up for that, right?"

She smiled; _Well isn't that him all over_. She let her arms drop from their fold. "I got your text," she offered.

"That's what cell carriers are for," he nodded politely.

"So why is this not a good day?" she asked. _Before I leave here, you will tell me_.

He stopped short and looked at her, his eyes going up and down in a way that she took to be cataloguing. "You look… nice. Different," he said, his voice a little lighter than usual - polite, _nervous_.

"It's a good day," she said deliberately.

"Why?"

She studied his face, with its bulldog determination and sudden lack of personal investment. _This isn't William. This is Brandt_. "Because," she said slowly, "I came here to make sure you were still alive. You are."

"And that's all that matters," he said, somewhat sourly. He turned away from her and went to the sink, dipping his hands in the basin. She heard splashing and smelt the stringent odour of turpentine wafting across the room. He turned on the tap soon after but still she waited.

Eventually he turned and picked up a clean towel, scrubbing dry first his hands, then his arms up to the elbows. He leant back against the counter and looked at her, the towel by his left side.

Her gaze went to his face and she stared; something she had never seen, something she had never expected to see, especially from someone as emotionally-controlled as Brandt. Tears. Real, actual, salty tears, simply streaming down his cheeks as if they had a day pass valid for his entire face.

"William-." She stopped. She didn't know what else to say.

"Do me a favour," he said, his voice casual, unemotional.

"Anything," she breathed, coming closer to him.

"Get me a tissue."

She nodded, scrabbling in her small bag for just such a piece of essential equipment. She pulled out a disposable pack and ripped the top open, stopping in front of him as she tugged a single tissue free. She dropped the rest in her bag. Her left hand went to his face to hold him still as she aimed the tissue at him. She felt him stiffen; his eyes were wider, surprised, unable to comprehend. She cleared her throat and just brandished the tissue in her right, prepared to wipe the water away for him.

"What are you _doing_?" he asked, sounding for all the worlds to be so freaked out there should have been a medal involved.

She froze. "Uhm-"

" _Jesus_ , Jane," he smiled, taking the tissue from her and stuffing it in his left eye. "Turpentine."

An entire world of realisation crashed down around her, as the fumes from the sink began to work their stinging magic on _her_ eyes, too. She gave a nervous laugh, backing away, to be out of reach of the smell and also his little cloud of embarrassed amusement.

She bumped into the table and looked up at him instinctively. He managed to hold her gaze for barely two seconds.

Then he started laughing.

She listened; she revelled. William Brandt was _laughing_. Not a polite titter, or a manly chuckle, but a full-on 'a-hur-hur-hur' belly laugh.

"You bastard," she accused, shaking her head. "You shouldn't be using that, anyway."

"There wasn't anything else here." He leant back on the counter, assessing the tissue in his hand before forcing it into his right eye, then his left again. "So…"

"So," she said bravely.

"You mentioned pizza."

"You mentioned 'not a good day'," she pressed.

He regarded her for a moment. " _Pizza_ ," he stressed, as if it should be obvious.

"What does that _mean_?" she asked. She looked around for the house phone. All she found was a telecomms cord hanging out of the wall. She looked back at him.

"You've got a cell, right?" he asked. "Get pizza."

"What about your cell phone?" she shot back.

"Flat. Can't find the fuses in this place to turn the power on," he said.

"So… you have no phone at all to call for pizza?"

"Why do you think it's not a good day?"


	3. That Time in New York

## That Time in New York

Benji Dunn pulled up at the safe house. A black street, a black block of apartments, a black evening altogether. He steeled himself and got out of the SUV, bringing his laptop and necessities bag with him. A cursory walk round the block, a few slips and sideways manoeuvres, and he was heaving himself up the fire escape of the next block down, the bag slung across his back.

He stopped at the seventh floor and rapped on the window. A dark shape loomed just inside. Dunn blew out steam, feeling the winter air trying to freeze the oils in the skin of his face. The shape inside simply waited.

He tapped again. "Come on mate - let me in! It's like Juneau out here!" he hissed.

The window was slid to one side and Dunn grabbed the ledge. Hands helped him to haul himself in and he scrabbled inside faster than a squirrel with nut-theft paranoia.

He got to his feet and all but slammed the window shut again in his haste. "Bloody hell, that's cold," he grumbled, turning. "Couldn't they have put you in San Diego, or Miami? Why New York?"

William Brandt just shrugged. Bundled up in several t-shirts and a large hoodie, his face was a mixture of red and reluctance.

"That bad, eh?" Dunn said. He clapped a hand to Brandt's arm. "Right then. I've got…" He swung the bag from his back and unzipped it. "Uhm… Well, there's _Jaws_ \- the proper original one, mind," he gabbled. "And I brought the restored director's cut of _Aliens_ , cos I know you like that one, and I've the entire fifth season of _Burn Notice_. What first?" he asked.

There was no answer. Dunn looked up from his bag, fearing the worst. What he saw made him want to punch several enemy agents in the face, and the bigger than him the better.

Brandt was a study in shame and broken will. Even his hair, clearly washed and left to its own devices, simply fell where it would, completely unable to get up the will to participate in the outside world. His eyes, the large, sometime-empty but ofttime-dagger-like points of warning, were on the carpet. And they were red. A little too watery, a little too unfocused - they forced Dunn to swallow and look back at his stash of blu-ray discs. He went to the small table by the sofa, emptying them out noisily. Brandt took the hint and went to the couch too. He sprawled in the corner and Dunn busied around him, collecting glasses from the kitchenette, finding beer in the fridge and pouring some for them both. He pulled the table nearer, making sure he set it on Brandt's left side, trying to put everything within reach so that the tortured man would have no reason to move too far.

At last the room was set up; the large screen television was already blue and waiting for input. Dunn sat himself down on the far right of the sofa, looking at the other agent with a heart full of just wanting everything to be alright.

"I know it's tough," he offered quietly. "But we'll get through this together. Ok?" He reached out and patted Brandt's shoulder. "I've been there, and it is not pretty. But you can do this."

Brandt turned his head and looked at him. "Benji," he wheezed.

"Yes?"

" _Jaws_ first." Brandt paused. He sat forwards, his face registering pain before his hands covered his nose and mouth defensively.

"Right you are," Dunn said quickly. He went for the remote on the table.

"Tissue," Brandt muttered from beneath his hands. "Get me a tissue."

Dunn cursed himself on the inside for not anticipating that. _But I just hadn't expected it, not from Will_. He leapt up and snatched a box from the kitchenette, coming back over and plonking himself down on the sofa. He pulled one from the opening in the lid and handed it to Brandt.

He pressed it to his eyes first, then over his mouth. He jerked straight and then blew out a sneeze so tremendous Dunn feared for the television's ability to remain upright.

"Gah," Brandt managed, wiping himself clean and reaching for another tissue.

"Man 'flu - it is a bitch," Dunn said cheerfully. "And you really do go to pieces when you're sick, eh? But don't worry - we're all men here. I won't tell-"

"Start the damn movie."

"Gotcha."


	4. That Time in Florida

## That Time in Florida

The blast was incredible. Rubble, chips, steel, brick - it flew out in all directions. People screamed, others shouted, some made no noise.

 _What the-_ , Brandt cursed. He brought the SUV to an emergency stop and stared out of the windscreen.

The parking lot was a war zone. A car was now in several million pieces, and had blown out the sidewall of the shopping mall too. People were on the pavement, the tarmac, crying, wailing, calling for people, for help, for _something_.

"What the bloody hell was that!" Dunn cried from the back seat.

"Not us," Carter said. She got up from her back seat and pushed to be between the two front ones, looking out the windscreen. "What do you think? Someone knew we were here?"

"I'd say so," Brandt grunted.

Hunt looked at him from the passenger seat. "Get us out of here."

"What?" Dunn asked. "What about all the people-"

"We have to leave - right now," Hunt said. "If we were the target, more people will be in danger. If we _are_ the target, more people _will be in danger_." He looked at Brandt's hands on the steering wheel. "Go."

"But-"

" _Go_ ," Hunt barked.

Brandt slammed the SUV into Reverse. He turned in the seat, nudging Carter back. She was still sitting down as Brandt put his hand behind the right headrest, twisting to see behind them to reverse out. The vehicle spun backwards and came to a graceful stop perpendicular to the exit. Brandt rammed it into Drive and it squealed away.

Until they hit the main drag. "Benji!" Brandt called over his shoulder. The car screeched to a halt.

"Here!"

"Drive." Brandt had put it into Park and opened the driver's door before Hunt could get a word out. Brandt slid down to the pavement. Dunn scrambled out of the side door and ran round to the front. Brandt pulled a handgun from the back of his trousers and slapped it into Dunn's hands. "Recall in three. Go."

"Mr Brandt!" Hunt was shouting. "Get back-"

"Will do!" Brandt said with false cheer, waving a hand over his shoulder. He nodded at Dunn. He just backed away, turning to the driver's door and climbing in.

Carter poked her head out of the side door. "William!"

"Safe house. Go!" he called, breaking into a jog.

Hunt put a hand to his ear, pressing the mic in the cell connection. "Brandt, you cannot compromise-"

"Sorry sir, bad signal," came Brandt's voice.

Carter looked through the vehicle to Dunn. "Go. Safe house. Three hours." She turned and hopped out of the SUV.

"Uhm - right," Dunn managed, rather nervously. He glanced at Hunt's seething face and swallowed. Then he put the SUV into Drive and took off as fast as he could.

Carter and Brandt watched the vehicle hare away. She looked at him, but he turned and began to run back toward the parking lot. She followed.

The police had arrived; people were still calling out, trying to find others. Brandt automatically assessed who would benefit from help and who needed it the most urgently. He heard a shriek and turned to see a girl, no more than six, he guessed, not far from his right. Her hands were clapped over her face, her stumbling gait and wail of pain too much to ignore. Her t-shirt and denim dungarees were encouragingly unmarked. Carter followed Brandt as he crouched and swept his hands to the girl's arms, bringing her to a stop.

"Mom?" she wailed.

"No, sweetheart," Brandt said roughly. "We'll find your mom. Show me your eyes."

"It hurts!"

"I know, but you have to let me see," he said sternly.

She removed a hand to reveal tears, dust, pain on her face - and chips trapped in the water of her eyes.

"Jesus," he breathed. He looked around, saw the open space beyond the screaming zone. He whisked the girl off the ground, carrying her over to the relatively calm area. Setting her down to sit on the grass, he brushed dust and fine stone chips from her clothes. She tried to rub an eye but he pulled her hand away. "Don't do that - it'll make it worse. What's your name, sweetheart?" he asked.

He knew Carter was behind him; he heard rustling and her bag behind unzipped. She came round his right side, assessing the girl's face.

"Ruby," the girl said. "Where's my mom? I want my mom."

"We'll find her for you," Brandt said. "My friend, here? She's good at finding people." He looked at Carter.

"You go, I'll clean her up," she said, already nudging him aside.

"I got this. Go," he replied. His arm refused to be budged.

Carter stared at him - just stared. "You have an Achilles heel after all?" she marvelled, a biscuit away from teasing.

He didn't look at her. "Are we workin' here or not?"

She assessed how different his poker face looked, compared to his off-duty one. She nodded. She got up and disappeared.

Brandt looked at the girl. "So, Ruby - you live around here?" he asked. He fumbled in his pocket, searching. It was empty. He cursed on the inside.

"N-no. We came out here for the day," she mumbled.

"Uh-huh." He noticed the bag across her. "Ruby - do you have a tissue?" he asked.

She sniffed. "I think."

"Can I get it from your bag?"

"I don't know you," she protested. "Mom told me not to let strange men ask me for things."

"Well I am strange, I can tell you that, but I'm just trying to help. I know how to make your eyes stop hurting," he said. "And my friend Jane? She's looking for your mom right now. I want you to find her, ok? I want you to go back to her - but I need a tissue."

She sniffed. "Ok," she said in a small voice. Her grip on her bag trembled. He put his large hands over hers, squeezing them slightly. She began to shake. He slid a hand into her bag, his other holding onto hers. At last his fingers connected with something tissue-like and he pulled it out. Finding it a napkin from a coffee shop, he nevertheless folded it to produce a sharp corner.

"Now, you got to stay still, ok, Ruby?" he asked.

"I don't even know your name," she muttered, her shoulders shaking.

"Br-. William."

"William what?"

"William…" He cast around for an alias he hadn't yet used in this state. "Let me get that stuff out of your eyes first."

"Ok," she whispered.

He tilted her head back and very carefully used the point of the tissue to sweep small chips from her right eye. He worked silently, methodically, deftly. Her shaking quietened. At last she was blinking and letting her eye's own defence mechanism flush it safely clean.

"There, see? All done. Now the other one," he said warmly, starting on her left eye.

"You have a big nose," she said timidly.

He grinned, mostly in relief. "Well, thank you, Ruby."

"I like it."

"That's great." He continued clearing the tiny points from her eye. Presently he peered at it, assessing it carefully.

"Am I ok now?" she asked.

"I think so. I think we should take you to see the medics in the ambulance. They'll check you properly."

"Thank you, William," she said quietly. He moved to stand but she grabbed his hand, still holding the tissue, in a desperate gesture not lost on him. "Were you shopping today?"

"Yes I was," he said, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

"Did you get what you came for?"

His smile slipped. "No."

"What did you want?" she asked quickly. He recognised the need to cover your own fear with aimless chit-chat. She sniffed. "I been in this shop twice today. I think I know where everything is," she went on.

He wheezed out a sigh, turning and sitting by her side on the grass. She kept herself at a distance, but her hand went out and held onto the sleeve over his right arm, he noticed.

"I was looking for someone," he said.

"You can't buy people, William," she said. He grinned, looking at her. Her face was amused - just slightly. Then it fell into fear. "What happened today?" she asked. Her voice was thin, afraid.

"Someone did a very naughty thing. When I find them, I'll make sure they're very sorry," he bit out.

"Can you do that?"

"It's kind of my job," Brandt said, looking at her. She tilted her head up to see him. "They scared you and they could have really hurt your eyes. That's very naughty."

She bit her lip. Then she turned her head and looked away. "Mom!" She leapt up as Carter came back with a panicking woman in tow. Ruby streaked off and straight into the woman's legs. She was swept up and hugged, as Carter went over and looked down at Brandt.

Brandt shrugged. She put a palm out and he took it, and they hauled him to his feet.

"Thank you!" the woman cried, grabbing Brandt's arm as if it were a life raft.

"She'll be ok," he said. "She needs to see the paramedics over there first. I think she's just scared."

"Thank you so much!" the woman blurted, her face awash with tears. "I saw this man and then there was this noise and the next thing I know-"

"Excuse me," Carter said gently, her hands encouraging the woman's to release Brandt's arm. "You saw a man? What man?"

"This - man," she said. "He was by the car - the car that exploded." She held Ruby to her front, swaying them both slightly.

"What did he look like?" Carter said, even as Brandt pulled an earpiece from his pocket and plugged it back into his left ear.

"Uhm - I don't know - middle-aged. Rough, like he'd been sleeping on the street. Red t-shirt, like… blue jeans, I think."

"Was he wearing a baseball cap?" Brandt said suddenly.

"Ye-yes," she managed. "I think it was-"

"It was red," Ruby put in. She turned and looked at Brandt even as she clung on to her mother. "It was a red hat. It had a picture on it, like a football team."

Brandt smiled. Ruby smiled too.

His eyes never left Ruby's, but he nudged Carter's arm and pointed off to their left. She looked over at the edge of the parking lot, at the red hat with the picture on it moving away through the crowd. Brandt let his hand drop. "Excuse us," he said. "We have to find someone."

The woman simply clutched at her daughter. Carter turned and was already pushing through emergency crews and bystanders, a hand to her ear as she spoke. Brandt nodded to Ruby but she reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

"Be careful," she warned.

He studied her small face for a moment. "I will, Ruby." He heard Carter's voice in his earpiece, followed by Dunn and then Hunt - ordering a take-down.

"And make sure you take a tissue," Ruby added. Brandt just cocked his head. She smiled. "He might need a tissue."

"Oh, by the time I'm done with him, he will _definitely_ need a tissue," he promised.

She grinned.

He turned and ran.

## FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! If you made it to the end, thank you for your perseverance. Apologies for the seriousness of this last one. If this gets any hits at all I'll be stoked; the reason this came about was me lamenting the dearth of non-slash William Brandtness in any fanfic archive anywhere, so here we go.  
> Hope it whiled away twenty minutes without too much upset.   
> Reviews are deep-fried crack, people. But I'll settle for knowing someone's read the page, whether they leave a note or not.   
> Cheers m'dears! Thanks for reading!


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